


Changes of Address

by Arabwel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, As Stiles finds out, Background Berica - Freeform, Background Kali/Jennifer, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Kissing, M/M, Minor Character Death, Scenting, Soul Bond, Soulmarks are complicated yo, Soulmates, Underage Kissing, alternate season 3, background petopher, background scallison, burn injury mention, child abuse mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 06:51:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3478517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arabwel/pseuds/Arabwel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your soulmate's name is on your wrist from the day you both draw breath on this earth, only to burn away into blackness when death takes them. </p><p>In Beacon Hills, nothing is that easy. </p><p>Especially for Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Changes of Address

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lightning_Skies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightning_Skies/gifts).



> Thanks to the usual suspects for all the encouragement and my amazing betas <3
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, Moz!
> 
> ****
> 
> See end notes for character deaths

Deucalion has long since accepted that his wrist will remain blank till the day he dies. It has been blank for decades, well into his middle years as a wolf, until suddenly one day he wakes up and finds a name on his wrist. 

_Grzegorz_

The fact that it’s a man’s name doesn’t shake him. He’s been with men before, as well as women, whittling away his time while searching for someone who’d suit him more permanently, someone whose wrist was either as blank as his, or blackened over, to become his mate. There was only so long he could run a pack as the Alpha without a mate to be his other half, his counterpoint, the lever to his fulcrum. 

And here he is, now, with a sign that his soulmate has been born. He laughs, delighted. This deserves french toast for breakfast. 

It’s nine years later that he feels a pang on his wrist, in the middle of the negotiations with the hunters. He doesn’t show it, doesn’t let the maelstrom of emotion that’s reeling inside him affect him as he speaks to Argent. (No, Grzegorz is just a child, his soulmate is only nine, they’ve never met, this is too much, too cruel—) 

He doesn’t blame it for the slaughter that follows. Or the madness. 

***

Stiles’ mark has been on his wrist since the day he was born, just like Scott’s has. While Scott has a nice, normal girl’s name on his, Stiles has a name he had to look up on the internet because he’s never heard of anyone named Deucalion before 

His mother tells him that he must be special, because he’s her beautiful baby boy with the name only she calls him—he’s only Grzegorz to her—and that’s why his soulmate is named after a greek god. 

When he’s older—when he’s _Stiles_ for good, when his name is buried with his mother - he finds out Deucalion was not a Greek _god_ , but the son of Prometheus. From there it becomes convoluted and sends Stiles on a mythology binge that lasts for weeks, until he writes a three page diatribe on why Zeus was a gross rapist in lieu of his paper on the Spanish-American war. 

Sometimes he wishes Scotty’s and his names matched. It would be so _easy_ , easier than his hopeless, stupid crush on Lydia Martin who is one of nature’s free agents, no mark on her wrist at all. Either she is destined to rob the cradle and Stiles will fight you if you imply she is not gonna be smokin’ hot cougar when the time comes, or to be forever free of the bond; a blessing in disguise, some people would say. 

Every time Stiles sees his dad’s thick black band, he thinks Lydia is lucky. Others pity her, like they pity Scott’s mom. She’s got a blank wrist, too—and she’d ended up with Scott’s asshole sperm donor, with his black band and zero respect to the amazing goddess that is Melissa McCall. 

Everything changes when Scott gets bitten by a werewolf _and_ meets his soulmate.

And that is how Stiles is here, now, in a parking garage with a completely fucking nuts alpha werewolf holding his wrist and offering to _bite_ him too—until he sees the name written on Stiles’ skin and stalls. Stiles tells him he doesn’t want to, and Peter backs the fuck off. 

With everything that goes down that night, it’s no wonder Stiles doesn’t remember how Peter... hesitated until the alpha pack comes to town. 

***

The beta girl scratches and bites and fights like a hellcat. If she were an alpha, Deucalion would not hesitate for a moment to bring her into the fold, but she is a beta turned omega and only an instrument in bringing him the Beacon Hills Alpha. Be it a Hale, or the stirrings of something else he can scent in the air. 

She dares to _bite_ him, sinking her little fangs on his hand. His retaliation comes with cold fury, a bloody backhand that sends her reeling into the vault wall. 

She’s barely conscious, the scent of her blood filling the air when she murmurs, “Figures, Stiles’ soulmate is a psychotic asshole.” 

Deucalion goes still. 

Later, much later, he is alone in the penthouse they have staked out, in the half-empty apartment building. He is uncharacteristically slumped in an armchair, his poise escaping him as he runs his fingertips over his wrist. 

It doesn’t feel any different. The black band is not a scar, it’s not raised or inflamed, it simply is. Proclaiming the void that is one’s soul missing a half.

He closes his eyes and lets his wolf come fore. Lets himself become the Demon Wolf. 

His eyes are a flaming fiery red when he opens them again. 

Under the eyes of the wolf, there is nothing on his wrist. No name, no scar, no blank space. _Nothing_. He doesn’t know if it is because the soul magic is not something even an Alpha’s vision can show, or if it is because the name on his wrist has always been a reddish, bloody colour.

And werewolves don’t see colour. 

Kali does not question him when he calls her and makes it clear that he wishes to see the Hale betas again. She is curious, but holds her tongue when she takes him to the abandoned bank. 

Just in time: the beta girl would have succumbed to her injuries at his hand sooner rather than later. An Alpha’s blows are mighty, even more so when it is the Alpha of Alphas who’s laying his hands on a weak little omega. 

It takes a lot out of him, makes him weak at the knees, blood rushing through his ears in a thunderous roar; it is not often done, an Alpha digging deep into their very core to heal a packmate, let alone an enemy wolf. 

By the time she’s breathing, steady but shallow, she’s _pack._

****

The summer heat is oppressive and Stiles feels like he is about to snap. Everything feels pulled taut, like sticky taffy about to break apart under it’s own weight. 

Allison is in France, and Scott is miserable. They both know her dad can’t keep her away from her for good, the names on their wrists pulsing bright and strong the first time they touched. But she needs time, needs space, for herself and Scott is honoring that. 

Even if he is moping and skulking around Beacon Hills like a lovelorn Byronic hero, learning his SAT words and plotting out his ridiculous tattoo. 

Scott isn’t the only one to skulk. The fact that Peter Hale is back has Stiles’ teeth on the edge, has him looking around his shoulder at times. Because even though Peter is no longer an alpha, he remembers the hungry look in Peter’s eyes when the wolf held him by the wrist. 

If he didn’t know better, Stiles would think Peter’s middle name is Deucalion. Except, it’s not, and he’s seen glimpses of Peter’s mark. To be honest, he expected a black burnt-out band, to fit with his rage at the destruction of his family, but instead Stiles has caught a C, and what could be a P, maybe. It could be an R. Peter wears a thick leather wristcuff almost at all times, one that looks like it would snap if he flexed because he’s almost as built as Derek and his jacked up alpha physique, but Peter’s mark stays stubbornly hidden. 

It’s not like Stiles is preoccupied or anything, but since Derek is adamant that looking for Erica and Boyd is none of Stiles’ business… he’s gotta keep busy somehow, or he’ll go _insane._ He’s got this feeling that something is just around the corner, something big and bad and _worse._ He knows Derek isn’t telling them everything, that he’s holding something back just like Peter is. 

Allison comes back and weird shit starts to happen. Animals are going crazy, Mr. Argent isn’t pulling a gun every time he sees Scott or Derek or even _Peter_ , and Stiles meets his soulmate. 

Well, _meets_ is a bit of an understatement for the _epic clustetrfuck_ that is the Alpha pack—and, alpha packs are a thing? Since when? He didn’t vote for that, that’s for sure, fucking _werewolves_ —showing up and throwing their weight around. And Derek—he ends up tossed over the railing in the old house and probably cracking some ribs, while the Alphas preen and posture. 

Well, except for the head douchenozzle. He’s English, smarmy, totally evil without a doubt and just so happens to have Stiles’ name on his wrist. 

And he knows with absolute certainty that Peter _knew._

Peter doesn’t deny it when Stiles confronts him about it, late at night at the loft. “I had a suspicion.”

“You knew he had my name on his wrist.” 

“Did I?” Peter nonchalantly plays with the ties of his bracelet, looking at Stiles with an arrogant tilt to his lips. The asshole. 

“Why else would you think it was him.” 

“You tell me, _Grzeogorz.”_

Stiles almost breaks his hand punching Peter. Almost. 

Instead, the cuff comes off and Stiles sees the name— _Cristopher_ —and suddenly it _clicks._

Mutually assured destruction is a wonderful thing. _That name_ is dead and buried, as is any hope Peter ever had of being with his soulmate. 

***

Deucalion lets the two other betas go. 

Only, one of them doesn’t _want_ to go, because of course he would be Erica’s soulmate. And somehow, this means, none of them go but all of them look at him like they want to belong. 

Deucalion is the Alpha of Alphas, the demon wolf. What use are three teenage _betas_ to him, ones so tightly bound to an enemy pack by ties of turning and blood? He ought to slay them all, to leave their torn bodies to rot in the vault he’d intended to use to turn them feral. 

He strokes his thumb over the _Stiles_ etched on his wrist. He can’t see it, or feel it, but it is there, heavy and solid, _grounding_ in a way that the black band he had believed in had not been. 

Perhaps… No, he’s come too far. He cannot suddenly stop being who he is, _what_ he is, even for Stiles. Even if it means keeping— Erica and the rest here until Stiles is _his._

He will not leave Beacon Hills empty-handed. 

***

Things get intense and Stiles stops thinking about the name on his wrist. Much.

The Alpha pack— No, _Deucalion_ is around, all British and smarmy and blind. He flits around Derek, keeping the alpha on edge, constantly growling and snapping and agitated to the point where he’s practically wearing grooves in the loft floor when he’s not taking his displeasure out on Peter, who just grins and bears it and eggs Derek on. 

Deucalion even sniffs around _Scott_ , complete with accosting his mom—like a gentleman but still—and Stiles starts to wonder. That maybe he’s been wrong—that Deucalion’s wrist says _Steve_ or _Stan_ or _Stanislaw_. Not _Stiles._

So, he starts reading about soulmarks. About the rarities, the odd ones out, the things that fall outside the norm. (And maybe it has something to do with the fact that he thinks his dad’s black band is getting narrower. Or maybe it’s a trick of the light.)

And it’s fascinating. Turns out, soulmarks are not as simple as he thought. They can and do change, although it is exceedingly rare and no one seems to know why. He reads about widows whose soulburns have receded to reveal new names, of people whose wrists have gone blank instead of burnt, people with more names than one and people whose names _change._

He corners Peter, one muggy evening, and they talk. He comes away with the knowledge that Deucalion went batshit crazy and blind because of _Gerard fucking Argent_ around the same time Stiles’ mother died, and his old name with her. He doesn’t know if he can trust Peter, not really, but he also knows Peter has no reason to lie. Well, other than for shits and giggles. 

If Deucalion won’t come to him, Stiles is gonna go to Deucalion. Which should not be as easy as it is, but the fact that the asshole is _seriously_ living right above the Argents and flaunting it. 

He’s lucky he doesn’t run into Allison—or her dad—in the elevator, but once he gets to the top floor he’s faced with a dilemma. There are two doors, and he has no idea which one has the tiger and which one the lady. 

But of course werewolf super senses take the decision out of his hands and one of the doors swings open as if on its own accord, revealing Deucalion. 

“Won’t you come in? I’ve just put the kettle on.” 

Stiles thinks Deucalion is British enough that trying to poison tea is a worse crime than murder, so he takes the cup when he is handed one. Deucalion moves with preternatural grace despite the glasses, no stick in sight, nor any other accommodations Stiles had expected. 

Soon, Stiles is seated at the breakfast bar with a mug, not a cup, a mug of steaming, fragrant tea with a ton of milk and sugar. Deucalion is likewise seated, his tea black with a slice of lemon. (Stiles did not yelp when Deucalion flashed claws to cut the fruit. He’ll fight you on that.)

At close range, Deucalion appears less... drawn as he did during their previous encounters. His face is still chiseled, but his sharp cheekbones are less tight, the cupid’s bow of his lips maybe a tad fuller, tad pinker. And shit, Stiles should be drinking his tea, not staring at Deucalion’s lips and wonder how they— No, just no. 

He takes a big gulp of the tea and nearly spits it out: despite the milk, it’s still very hot and leaves his mouth and throat on just this side of scalded as he splutters. 

Deucalion smiles, the bastard. 

It should be awkward, Stiles being here in the enemy’s _den_ , alone, face to face with someone old enough to be his dad—another thought hastily shoved aside—and just... not even chatting, just being. Absorbing each other’s presence should not be a thing, but it is, and Stiles feels the tension leeching from his shoulders, the stress and the worry being eased away. 

For a moment he wonders if he’s been drugged, but he feels more clear-headed than ever before. Perhaps it’s because he is finally in the presence of his soulmate, but he feels focused, centered in a way he hasn’t since the Adderall first kicked in, an effect that waned over time despite all the dosage adjustments in the world. Stiles has read about this, too: it’s not a magical cure to his ADD, but there’s a good chance having his bondmate near can reduce some of the symptoms, soothing the itch inside his soul that is one more snag in his concentration. 

They drink their tea in silence. Once his mug is empty Stiles sets it aside with a clink and folds his hands in his lap. He can do this. 

Before he can take a deep breath and start talking, Deucalion has put down his own mug and in the space of a heartbeat, he’s standing behind Stiles, hands hovering over Stiles’ suddenly tense shoulders. 

“Is this the part where you tear my head off? Because ripping out my throat with your teeth is so last year?”

Deucalion chuckles. “My dear boy, if my teeth sink into your neck it will be because you asked me for it _very_ nicely. I simply want to—see you.”

And shit, it makes sense. Stiles can feel himself blush, and berates himself because of course he’s putting his foot in his mouth. He knows he can be a gigantic jackass, like, Jackson grade about stuff, like the shit he’s said to Isaac, or even to Scott before his werewolfitude cured his asthma. 

He nods, then realizes Deucalion can’t see him and his blush intensifies. “O-Okay.”

The hands on his face are warm, warmer than human. Deucalion starts with his hair, humming and making little noises that are almost human at the back of his throat as he runs his long fingers over the bridge of Stiles’ nose, his cheekbones, over the ridges of his brows and over the moles on his jaw one by one, tracing and counting.

It should feel creepy especially with Deucalion behind him, but it does not. Stiles startles when he realizes he’s leaned back, the back of his head resting against Deucalion, the tops of his shoulders almost braced against the wolf’s unfairly-well-built body. Stupid werewolves and their rock hard abs and bulging biceps and indecent pecs (wait no that was just Peter, really, someone needs to take V-necks away from that guy); someone like Siles didn’t hold a chance. 

Deucalion’s hands move down to his shoulders, brush against the worn flannel and Stiles feels more tension drain as the heat and soft pressure moves over this arms, down to his elbows, pinning him in place. Deucalion leans forward to scent him, his voice low as he whispers.

“I have your lost betas.” 

***

Perhaps he should not have informed Stiles so abruptly. But, Deucalion is not above admitting that he’d been lulled into a false sense of closeness by his mate’s proximity and scent. 

Stiles nearly broke his nose with the alacrity of his movements when he rushed to stand to demand to know what was going on, where’s Erica and Boyd _you bastard_ , what was his game? 

 

It would benefit him greatly if he had a certainty within himself of that right now. 

Thankfully, Deucalion is spared the indignity of stammering an answer he is unsure of by the timely arrival of one Scott McCall, with the ever-delightful Ms. Argent at his heels. He can hear the door splinter, the lock cracking under inhuman might— _Where is Kali? Ennis?_ —and the whistle of a crossbow bolt in the air is unmistakable. 

It snaps when he snatches it from the air, mere inches from his skull. 

How dare these children, McCall’s potential notwithstanding, enter his house, his den? How _dare_ they intrude when he is speaking with _his_ Stiles? The urge to rip them into shreds, to let his rage and anger bloom into strength as his fangs drop and he fills his nose with blood and death and fear and not indignation and anxiety is great. But, Stiles’ presence is tempering, reminding him that this is his soulmate’s brother in all but blood who is now putting on a brave face, demand he lets Stiles go. 

No, not putting on brave face. The courage of Scott McCall is pure and untainted by fear or hesitation, and Deucalion thinks if he were to shift, to open his eyes and see he would see a flash of answering red. 

“Stiles came here out of his own free will.” Deucalion keeps his voice calm and even, as hard as it is. 

“Then why is his heart racing like he’s terrified?” And oh, McCall is an innocent one, is he not? 

Wordlessly, Deucalion lets the remains of the bolt drop and shakes his hand, enough for the sleeve to fall and reveal Stiles’ name. 

Things go... slightly more smoothly, after. Kali and Ennis are accounted for, and _oh_ the children are bright indeed. Promises are made for the reparation of the doorway that was smashed, and tentative agreement is made for a meeting involving Deucalion’s brand new betas and the Hale alpha. (And the errant Hale back from the dead. Deucalion is—more than curious.) 

Stiles is the last one to go, lingering in the broken doorway. His scent wafts across the chill air to Deucalion, his heartbeat still a little bit too fast. 

Even though he hears Stiles’ murmur of _Probably gonna regret this_ , he is surprised when Stiles does not say goodbye.

Instead, the boy leans in and brushes his lips across Deucalion’s, lightning quick, feather-light. Before he can actually process what happened, the soft warmth is gone and Stiles is legging it towards the elevator, leaving behind the scent of ozone and stale Doritos. 

***

The meeting is held at neutral ground, in an old abandoned shopping mall. It goes... both better and worse than Stiles expected. 

Erica and Boyd are alive. So is Derek’s little sister. And Deucalion—well. Deucalion claims the Alpha pack is here because of Stiles, and everyone, Stiles included, knows it’s bullshit. But when Deucalion smiles at him, staring just past his shoulder at the wall behind him and says he would like to _court_ Stiles properly—well, Stiles is not gonna be lowering his guard. But he says yes. 

Erica and Boyd are with Deucalion, now. Cora wavers, but goes to Derek, and together they can be seething balls of brooding rage while Isaac looks pretty in the background. That sounds about right. All is fine and dandy and no, Deucalion is not the one killing people on the side. 

So they still have problems. Big problems. 

And for once, Stiles’ obsessive research pays off.

When he sees Kali’s wrist, he’s not thinking and starts to blather on facts about people whose soulmates die on the operating table but come back and there’s a moment when he’s dangling by the throat against a wall. 

Because Kali’s soulmate, Julia, is dead. 

Except, she’s not, and suddenly the murders fit a pattern and they can be glad that it’s not, in fact, Allison’s dad. Who had known it was a magic user of some sort, because threefold death, but until the last piece came in he’d been unsure of where to go. And who to kill. 

(Allison’s dad whose soulmark is not a blackened soulburn like Stiles thought, but rather a vicious burnt _scar,_ like someone took a branding iron to his skin. It’s a miracle his hand works as well as it does. Remembering Gerard’s hospitality, Stiles has no doubt of where the scar is from. He carefully pushes the thought of the exceedingly rare cases where mark on one wrist is not matched on another out of his head, because he’s _seen_ how Mr. Argent looks just a little bit less hollow when he’s looking at Peter.

He mentions MRI imaging casually when he’s in the same room as Peter and Mr. Argent both. 

Apparently playing matchmaker is something he does to take his mind off the fact that he’s supposed to be _courted_ by Deucalion and how does that even happen? Was it like dating, or was he gonna find a moose heart on his doorstep? As soon as this is all over. As soon as they stop the Darach one way or another.)

The Darach gets stopped—and easy “A”s obtained because instead of Harris being some sort of a slime monster, it’s their English teacher. The _hot_ one. After this, finding out that the guidance counselor is an Emissary, too, is anticlimactic. 

Apparently a soul bond can make you forgive even really, really, really fucked up things. Like your soulmate murdering your pack and trying to kill you. 

When Julia-Jeninfer-Junifer-Whatsherface and Kali leave, no one is surprised. Their wrists glow anew, the soulmark restored and Stiles has to wonder just how things differ for wolves. 

(He knows despite Peter’s death, whatever Mr. Argent has seen under the scars has satisfied him to the point where Allison seeks refuge in Lydia’s house and Derek looks constantly like someone put a lemon-spray bark collar on him. )

With the absorption of Boyd and Erica and Cora, and the departure of Kali and Jennifer, the Alpha pack is no longer—well, an alpha pack. The Twins stick around, despite the knowledge that their alpha spark will slowly recede till they’re back to betas because of the faith they have in Deucalion. Ennis, disgruntled and unhappy, tries to go for the throat. No one is surprised that Deucalion beats him squarely.

Stiles finds the squelch of blood when Deucalion _rips out Ennis’ heart_ to be grimly satisfying and gross as fuck. At least, Deuc has the decency to make sure the body is not found, no unsolved case for the Sheriff to be lambasted over. In fact, the presumed-missing Ennis makes for a great scapegoat, to cover what Jennifer has done. Jen and Kali owe Stiles _big_ , and he intends to collect one day. 

Beacon Hills is left with not one, not two but three whole Alphas. Derek, Deucalion and _Scott._ Who didn’t kill or inherit it, but according to Morrell and Deaton, simply has the strength of character to lift him to the nigh legendary status of a True Alpha. Stiles may have shed a tear. After all, he taught little Scotty how to werewolf in the first place. 

(Peter says there is a fourth.,and Stiles doesn't trust Peter one bit, but he does trust Mr. Argent… Okay so he trusts _Allison_. And through that, and through the look he saw on Peter’s face when Cora was revealed, well, that’s enough for Stiles to not to dismiss it outright.) 

That only leaves one more hurdle for Stiles. 

***  
Deucalion is at the Stilinski household precisely on time at 7:00 pm. It was odd, to take a taxi instead of having Kali drive, but since none of his newfound betas are actually old enough to drive, he’s making do. It is frustrating, and without doubt will be even more so until things settle, but some things are worth a little inconvenience . 

Stiles’ familiar heartbeat spikes up when Deucalion rings the doorbell. Here, at his home, the boy’s scent is everywhere, mingled with that of his father and a strong sense of _den._ Even so, it hits him full in the face when Stiles opens the door. 

“Hey there.”

“Hello, Stiles.” 

There is another hop in his heartbeat when Deucalion reaches out to take hold of his arm, the welcoming warmth of his mate’s body close to his as they enter the house is something worth savoring and that is what Deucalion does. 

Once they reach the kitchen, the air is filled with the scent of surprise and alarm. 

“Stiles, who’s this?”

“Dad, this is Deucalion.”

He can feel Stiles tense under his touch, the deep breath his mate is pulling into his lungs to steady himself. He squeezes Stiles’ shoulder gently, tries to lend as much of his strength to his mate as he can. When Stiles joins their hands and lifts them, baring their wrists to the Sheriff, he doesn’t resist. 

“He’s my soulmate.” Stiles pauses, and his scent flares full of strength and determination, the ozone almost burning Deucalion’s nostrils. 

“And he’s a werewolf.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fic includes references to the Alpha Pack's dead packs, the death of Stiles' mother, the sacrifices in canon in s3. Ennis dies.


End file.
